


The Perils of Doing Porridge (and other perversions of the penal code)

by MidniteMarauder



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Bukkake, Community: merry_smutmas, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Humiliation, M/M, Non Consensual, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-27
Updated: 2006-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidniteMarauder/pseuds/MidniteMarauder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prison changes a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perils of Doing Porridge (and other perversions of the penal code)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fluffyllama (Llama)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/gifts).



> Written for Merry_Smutmas 2006 for Fluffyllama. Much gratitude to my cracking betas and Britpicker, archon_mentha and shaggydogstail. You totally made this so much better! Also thanks to the nyc_l00bs for further reviewing and proofreading! And for those particular 'bad influences', I'm glaring at you, and you know who you are, too. :-P (M, K, &amp; S in particular!)
> 
> *'Doing porridge' has nothing to do with food porn with oatmeal -- it's brit-slang for 'doing time in prison'.

_Me? Scared? 'Course I wasn't scared!_

_I was t'd off, 's what I was! Mad as 'ell! I was set up! Planted some bird to frame me, they did. Knew I was someone t'be reckoned wiv._

_You don't know nuffink! Spit right in that Auror's face, I did! Nearly wrestled his wand right out 'o 'is 'and! Showed **him** who's boss. Another one 'ad to Petrify me to stop me. Beat a bloke when he's down and all. Cowards._

_Tried to torture me, get me to tell secrets. Tried to break me, but I never said nuffink. Can't mess wiv Stan, no sir-ee._

_Aww, shut up! Wot choo know anyway?_

  
He was scared shitless – so scared, in fact, that he'd nearly pissed himself twice before they'd even moved him from the Ministry holding cell. He'd thought at first that he was being taken for trial before the Wizengamot. They'd look at him and know, know that he was nothing, a nobody, that his only crime was in trying to impress some bird by pretending to be somebody important. Birds preferred men of mystery, not ordinary Knight Bus conductors. How could he have known that she worked for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? Worse, how could he have known that she'd actually _believe_ him?

Now, as the silhouette of the bleak fortress of Azkaban finally loomed ahead of him through the driving rain and gloom, he gagged, feeling the bile rising in his throat. He clutched at the robes of the Auror escorting him, his voice a keening wail as he begged the wizard to take him home, to take him anywhere but here.

The Auror kicked him sharply in the ribs. "Shut it, you!" the man barked, and kicked him again, a cruel smile on his face.

Stan cried out and let go, flinching as the man made to kick him a third time. The man stayed his foot and laughed, a harsh, spiteful sound, and Stan ducked his head, his cries reduced to a pathetic, mewling whimper.

"Better get used to it, kid," the Auror said, leering. "The Dementors may be gone, but that don't mean it's gone soft in there. Some reckon it's even worse. After a few days, you'll remember how soft my boot felt. Like a kiss." He laughed again. "Be lucky to last out the month. And good riddance."

Stan kept his head down and heard him spit, but he was already soaked and couldn't feel the difference between spittle and rain.

"Filthy Death Eater. 'S no more'n you deserve."

The prison guards and Aurors sneered at him as they made him strip down and shower before them. A hulking wizard with greasy hair and rancid breath roughly searched his body for—for what, he didn't know. He was poked and prodded, fingers pulling and pinching, shoved forcefully into every opening.

He jerked and cried out when a gloved finger breached his arse.

"Oooh, you're a tight one," the wizard whispered in his ear, holding him tight and shoving mercilessly. "They're gonna love you."

Stan closed his eyes and whimpered at the pain, and the finger was gone.

"Nah. He's got nothing," the wizard said. Stan flinched when he heard the sharp snap of the glove being removed over the chuckling of the guards.

Someone threw a worn linen towel at him and ordered him to dry himself off. When he didn't move fast enough, he was pushed hard against the wall, and pain blossomed behind his eyes as his head cracked against the stones.

"Move it, Death Eater!"

The towel was small and the room was cold. He stood naked, still quite damp and shivering, his head, ribs and arse aching. He could see a purpling bruise already forming on his side.

"B-but—

"Ho! It speaks!"

"Naw, it squeaks!"

He heard their laughter and it filled him with shame. He swallowed and tried again, his voice stammering.

"M'not—M'not a-a D—"

"Not an ickle Death Eater?" his Auror escort spoke up. "Going to start that again, are you? Even though you were caught red-handed, bragging. That's right lads. Not only is our precious Mr Shunpike not a Death Eater, he claims he's a personal friend of Harry Potter himself!"

They all laughed again, and Stan bowed his head. He felt numb inside. So maybe they weren't exactly friends, more like acquaintances and all, but he _did_ know Harry, and Harry knew him. But what had he really expected? That they'd fetch Harry from Hogwarts to testify on his behalf based on… based on what? Not that he'd even had a trial anyway.

"Hey! I'm talking to you!"

Stan looked up and shied away from the guard who was standing over him, glaring down at him.

"S-sorry," he mumbled.

"Here. Put this on."

The guard thrust a thin, shapeless grey robe into his hand and stepped away. He pulled it on over his head, shrugging his arms into the sleeves. It fell to mid-calf, far too short for him, and did nothing to keep out the chill.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Let's go. Move."

"D-don't, um, socks?" he asked timidly.

They laughed again, and one called out, "Does this look like Gladrags to you, boy?" Someone pushed him roughly from behind and he stumbled, stubbing his toe on the stone floor, and followed meekly, biting his lip hard, unshed tears blurring his vision.

He kept his head down the entire time, following the guard in front of him and aware of the other guard at his back, who seemed to take great pleasure in 'helping' him along if his pace slowed even a fraction. He heard jeers and whistles from the other prisoners in their cells as he passed.

"Mmmm. What a sweet bit 'o fresh meat we got 'ere!"

"Missing your mummy, little boy?"

"Oi, Dolohov! Take a look at this! Ugly lookin' thing."

"Dolohov ain't interested in his face, you twit. But, those ears'll serve for holdin' onto."

"Now, now, go easy on him. He's probably a virgin, and we don't want Dolly-boy to go 'n break him 'fore the rest of us get a turn."

"Think his arse is as pimply as his face?"

"Never made no difference to you before, Jugson!"

More cruel laughter surrounded him, seeping under his skin, overwhelming him. The guard in front of him stopped, and he heard a clanking sound before he was pushed roughly into a frigid, barren cell. He fell to his hands and knees, and heard the door clang shut behind him.

"Welcome to Azkaban, boy," the guard sneered. "Or," he added, lowering his voice, "should I call you 'friend of Harry Potter'? Word of advice to you: I wouldn't go spreading that around if I were you. There might be a few wizards in here who might take offence to that. Hope you enjoy your stay." The guard laughed again.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Stan heard the guard say. "C'mon Scruggs."

"Just a minute," the second guard – Scruggs – called out after his companion. "Jenkins has a delivery for you, Lucius," Scruggs said more softly. "I'll arrange it. The usual fee, of course."

"Of course," came the reply.

Stan shuddered. Everyone knew who Lucius Malfoy was. He was afraid to move and didn't dare turn around, but he heard nothing more. He was alone in his cell. Alone. No friends, not a soul who would show him the least bit of kindness or compassion. Surrounded by killers and criminals: Death Eaters.

_Be lucky to last out the month_, the Auror had said, and now Stan believed him.

He could still hear the other inmates, but he did his best to ignore them. He crawled to the wooden bench at the back of the cell. There was a ratty old blanket, but it was better than nothing. He climbed onto the bench, wrapped himself in the blanket as best he could, curled up into a ball, and for the first time since he was a young boy, cried himself to sleep.

  
*~*

  
_All right, so I got a little scared when I first saw the place close up. It was bloody cold in there, and they took away my socks, can you believe that? 'Ow can they expect a man to walk around if 'is toes freeze off?_

_The other prisoners? Naw, they didn't bother me none. Was the Aurors and the prison guards, they were the fuckin' bastards. Tried to act like I was a piece of shit under their shoe, 'n every last one of 'em was corrupter than a Goblin wiv a wand, I tell ya. Us against them, it was. S'truth._

  
It had been nearly a week, or so he thought. It was hard to remember. There were no windows in his cell, and the only means he had of telling time was by the meals the house-elves brought him twice a day. At least he thought it was twice a day. Maybe it was once a day and he'd really been here two weeks.

He slept most of the time, or tried to – the other inmates were not very accommodating, and he could hear them shouting at him and to each other all down the row. Apparently, the prisoners were let out of their cells every other day, too. Some type of work program. They hadn't forced him to go – yet – but he knew he'd be expected to soon enough.

It wasn't as if his jailors were being nice: they just stood there laughing when the other prisoners stopped in front of his cell to taunt him, something they all seemed to take perverse pleasure in. Twice they'd caught him while he was taking a piss in the pot in the corner, and the awful things they'd said to him…

He shuddered. He made sure to piss only at night now – when he could manage it, anyway. He'd already pissed himself a few times, but he didn't care. Even locked in his cell alone, he was still afraid. The fear gnawed at him no matter if he was awake or asleep. It was all the same nightmare, though he supposed in his heart, he was grateful that the Dementors no longer patrolled the corridors and cells.

He looked up suddenly, peering across the dim cell and through the bars, and quickly looked away, ducking his head under the blanket. Lucius Malfoy was in the cell directly across from Stan, and he was currently standing in front of the bars of his own cell looking directly across at him. Malfoy never said a word to him, but his cold, murderous eyes would stare at Stan, and Stan would cower under that glare. He wasn't foolish enough to speak to Malfoy.

"All right, Shunpike. Holiday's over."

There was a clank of metal, and one of the guards was standing over him, ripping the blanket off him and urging him to his feet.

"Bloody hell, you reek!" the guard cried, taking a step back. "You smell like dead piss, you stupid twat. We don't have nappies here." He grabbed Stan by the back of the neck and pushed him towards the back corner of the cell. "See that? You'd better start pissing in it, 'cause if I catch you pissing in your robes again, I swear I'll make you eat them. Got it? You filthy cunt, answer me!"

Stan nodded weakly.

"Good. Since it's your first week, I'll let you off with a warning. I'll even get you a clean blanket and robes, because that's the sort of bloke I am," he jeered. "But, first it's off to the showers with you. Now. Move it!"

Stan bowed his head and walked out of the cell, avoiding the all-seeing eyes of Lucius Malfoy and feeling horribly ashamed. The other cells were empty as he passed them, and he was thankful, since it meant the others hadn't heard the guard's cruel words to him. But as they got closer to the showers, he began to wonder where the other prisoners were and he stiffened, a feeling of dread washing over him. He nearly cried in relief when they reached the showers and he realized he was alone.

He hurriedly stripped out of his filthy robe and held it out to the guard, who looked disgusted.

"Drop it on the floor, you idiot. _Evanesco_. Now get under the water and stay there. If I find you've moved even a foot…." he threatened.

Stan nodded.

"Good. I'll be back."

The water was blessedly warm, and there was even a small cake of soap. He closed his eyes and stood under the spray, letting it wash over him, and for a moment, he was back in his dingy flat in Clapham, feeling as if the past week had been nothing more than a horrible nightmare. Keeping his eyes closed, he washed the stench of Azkaban from his body, his mind lost in his game of 'Let's Pretend'. He was getting ready for work. Ern would be waiting for him, and the passengers depended on him, especially Madam Marsh. He even began to sing, humming an old tune by the Hobgoblins.

"Hello, Pretty."

Stan dropped the soap.

"Now, now. Aren't you going to pick that up?"

He could feel the man's breath in his ear and he swallowed hard.

"Didn't think you were ever gonna come out of your cell. We were starting to think you were avoiding us, but you weren't, were you, ducky?"

Stan shuddered, feeling hands on his back, touching his arse, two hands, three, oh god, more. His eyes were still closed, and he clenched them shut even more tightly, a grimace on his face. Oh my god, how many where there? He was shaking with both cold and fear.

"Ooh, what a sweet little arse you've got." He felt someone squeeze, and another hand swept roughly through his cleft.

"No," he whispered. "P-Please. Stop."

The man chuckled, and licked Stan's ear. Stan flinched, and he heard others laughing now.

"Doesn't seem to like you, Dolohov. Fancy that."

"Don't want him to like me," Dolohov said, licking again.

"Just want him to like your cock," another man jeered.

"Not at all. But he'll take it anyway, won't you, Pretty?" He grasped Stan's wrist hard, moving the limp hand to his crotch. "Touch it."

Stan whimpered.

"Dolohov, you know what—"

"Shut it!" Dolohov barked. He reached over and turned off the shower, turning Stan around to face them. He moved Stan's hand to his cock again, and closed Stan's fingers around it. "There. Open your eyes now."

Stan shook his head, and backed his clenched arse up against the wall, still squeezing his eyes closed.

Dolohov grabbed Stan's bollocks and twisted.

Stan squealed and opened his eyes. He recognized the faces of the men before him: Dolohov, Lestrange and his awful brother, Jugson, Macnair, Mulciber, faces he had seen on the front page of the _Prophet_ only months earlier. There were others behind them, but he couldn't see who, or how many more there were.

"Much better, Pretty. We want you to watch."

"W-watch?"

Mulciber stepped to his other side and smiled, a horrible, cruel smile, and took Stan's other hand. "Since he's got another," he taunted, and wrapped Stan's other hand around his cock.

They were all naked, all of them, and didn't seem the least bit ashamed. They circled around him, leering at him, calling him 'Pretty' and telling him they had a gift for him, to welcome him. Afraid to look in their eyes, he looked down and saw that all of them were hard, and those he wasn't holding himself were slowly stroking their own cocks.

"Yeah, that's right, watch us. You like cock, Pretty? You will by the time we're through with you, and you'll beg for more. Now stroke it. Both of 'em."

"I-I…"

Mulciber leaned over and stage-whispered in his ear. "You don't want to make him angry. Now, me being fair-minded and all, I say you got two choices. You can toss us off just as he asked, or I can turn you around right now and we all take turns shoving our cocks up your arse. What's it gonna be, boy?"

Stan stroked.

"There's a good boy," Mulciber said, chuckling. "Harder now. C'mon, you can do better than that. Yeah, that's it."

Stan wanted to close his eyes, but he was sure they'd punish him if he did. He stroked his hands up and down the damp flesh, squeezing harder or speeding up when they told him, trying to pretend he wasn't shuddering, that he meant to shake like this. He let his head drift down even further, resting his gaze on their bare feet, but a hand gripped his chin and forced him to look up again.

He tried to pretend he was tossing himself off as he stroked them, the way he used to before, hiding behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy and watching Penelope Hardcastle have it off with any number of blokes, or that gorgeous Veela girl from the Quidditch World Cup he used to dream about fucking.

But all he could see were cocks and balls, hard and red, thrusting between large, rough hands. They surrounded him, so close he felt claustrophobic, their harsh guttural grunts and curses sounding in his ears, and his wrists were beginning to hurt.

After a few minutes more, he was suddenly thrust down hard onto his knees, but he didn't care because Mulciber and Dolohov had released his hands. He rubbed at the pain in his wrists and saw they were stroking themselves now, hips thrusting wildly, all of them stroking and grunting and growling, cursing at him. They all seemed to be moving even closer still, and he shied back. He could smell them, sour sweat and damp, unwashed skin, and he felt sick, tried not to breathe through his nose.

"Keep watching, Pretty, and don't you move. That's sweet, gonna open your mouth for us, too? No? Watch, you little cunt, and see the fruits of your labour. You were such a good boy this first time, I've a present for you, ohhhh, yeah. Fuck, yeah."

Dolohov stepped closer and shoved his cock close to Stan's face, stroking himself as he grunted and came. One by one, and once two at a time, they all stood directly over him and he heard their triumphant cries, watched them come on him, his chest and arms and legs, his face and in his hair. Rodolphus was the last, standing right in front of him, and Stan blinked back tears as come splattered and dripped down his cheek. It was warm and slippery, and he could feel it leaving an oily-like sheen on his skin. A few droplets clung to his lips, and he was afraid to open his mouth.

He felt sick, dirty, and so full of shame he hardly dared to breathe.

"Fuck, that was good," Jugson said, breathing heavily. "_Now_ he looks pretty," he added, sniggering.

"What exactly is going—Oh," Lucius Malfoy said, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. Stan whimpered and cowered when he heard that voice, afraid of what would come next. He sat back on his heels and tried to inch his way backward, wishing desperately that he could melt into the wall.

Malfoy looked at the semi-circle of his fellow Death Eaters and fixed them with a malevolent glare, his eyes narrowing. "Go," he said softly, and without hesitation they all fled, stopping only to pick up their discarded robes.

Stan sat very still, willing his body not to move, but his hands – his whole body – was shaking violently. Malfoy strode over and stood above him.

"Get up. It's all right."

Stan didn't move.

Malfoy grunted and knelt down. Stan flinched, but then realized that Malfoy wasn't going to touch him: he'd merely stooped to pick up the earlier-discarded soap. Malfoy stood up and cleared his throat.

Stan wiped his face with his hand and gingerly got to his feet, still shaking. Malfoy stepped to the side and turned on the water.

"Wash," he said.

Afraid to turn his back, Stan just stood there on shaky legs half-under the spray, and stared unblinking at Malfoy's chest.

"No one will bother you, now," Malfoy said, and reached out his hand towards Stan.

Stan stepped back, then realized what it was Malfoy held in his hand. He moved slowly towards him and reached out his own hand. Their fingers brushed for just a moment as he took the soap from Malfoy. Stan shivered, the violent shaking easing gradually under the heat of the water, and he finally turned his back, letting the water fall full on his face and chest, washing away the nightmare.

When he felt clean again, he turned off the water and turned to thank Malfoy, but he had gone. The guard who had brought him here earlier was standing near the door with a towel and a clean robe in his hand, looking impatient, but there was a nasty gleam in his eye when he looked at Stan.

Malfoy was in his cell when the guard returned Stan to his own cell. Stan paused at the door as the guard closed and locked it behind him, and turned back to look over his shoulder at Malfoy, a faint smile on his face. Malfoy nodded curtly and stepped back into the shadows. Stan made his way back to the bench at the rear of the cell, curled himself up in the new blanket and, feeling numb and exhausted, fell asleep.

  
*~*

  
_Whaddaya mean you know wot goes on in prison?_

_Well, I weren't in no Muggle film, now was I? Wizards ain't nuffink like Muggles. Wizards 'ave dignity, yeah? Don't 'ave to do nuffink like a filthy Muggle._

_You take that back! I weren't anybody's bitch! I'm a civilized man, that's wot I am, not some…some sick pervert._

_Aw, shut up. I told you, you don't know nuffink._

  
Stan knew he had never really been a very good wizard in a scholastic sense. He'd barely managed to scrape three O.W.L.s, and those were all Acceptable, which didn't leave him any reason or room to pursue N.E.W.T. levels. Still, he got by, found a job that paid well enough for his needs, if not necessarily his wants, and he was competent enough that he could boil water without burning it – or evaporating it all in one fell swoop.

Yet here he was, in a room that was no better than a dungeon, swishing robes and towels around in a giant steaming cauldron filled with hot, soapy water. Apparently, the new Minister felt that prisoners should be required to earn their keep by performing mindless tasks best left to house-elves. And worse, these tasks were to be done without magic – Muggle style.

He supposed that it would be impossible to manage cleaning charms without use of a wand, and the Aurors had taken his when he'd been arrested. He idly wondered if it had been snapped, or if he'd get it back if he ever got out of here. A very big if. But there _were_ house-elves here at Azkaban, and any one of the guards could do the laundry in a matter of minutes with a few swishes and flicks. But, no, instead he and the other prisoners were stuck with hours of hot, sticky, back-aching labour as if they were no better than house-elves or Muggles themselves. It was completely degrading. Even if he wasn't a very good wizard at that.

He wiped his brow and left the laundry to soak for a bit. The first day here, he'd actually been quite happy – or as happy as one could be when in prison and constantly afraid of everything and everyone around you. This was probably the warmest room in the entire prison with the possible exception of the kitchens, though he'd never seen those, and it had been a relief to be able to feel his toes. Even the showers were cold when you weren't standing directly under the water. However, after nearly three weeks of this, he was beginning to think the warmth wasn't worth it.

He leant back against a wall and cautiously looked around at the others. There was very little conversation between the inmates, though occasionally one of the Lestrange brothers and their ilk would make some snide remark to set them all sniggering. Lucius Malfoy stood near the doorway conversing idly with one of the guards. All of the inmates were required to come here every other day in shifts to work, but he'd noticed that Malfoy, while he was always here with the others, never actually did anything besides talk. Not that he'd ever complain, mind. He was still rather terrified of the man, despite his growing fascination. In the weeks that he'd been here, Malfoy was the only person who had ever…helped him.

A week ago, he had returned to his cell from work duty, and had found a thick pair of wool socks hidden under the blanket on the bench. He'd immediately looked around, expecting a trap of some kind since socks were not distributed to the prisoners, as he'd discovered on his first day, but there was nobody else in his cell waiting to pounce and punish him for possession of an illegal pair of socks.

He'd put them on, his hands trembling with gratitude, and hid his feet under the blanket. When he'd looked up, Malfoy had been standing across in his own cell watching him. Stan had felt that familiar stab of fear in his belly, but Malfoy had only nodded curtly at him, and stepped away from the bars, retreating into his own cell.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that, despite being pinched and pushed or tripped, and even laughed at and teased by the others – and he was still deathly afraid of Dolohov and Lestrange and the other Death Eaters – there hadn't been any other…really bad incidents like that one time in the showers. Well, except for the occasional groping which never actually amounted to anything because…

Because every time Malfoy walked in, the others would immediately stop.

Yet Malfoy never asked for anything in return. And Stan had never actually asked Malfoy for help either. Why would a man like Malfoy, rich, powerful and strong as he was, help a little, helpless…pussy like him? Malfoy hadn't even spoken to him since the Incident. Still, Stan was grateful, very grateful, for his…kindness.

"Oi, you! Tight Arse!"

One of the guards – Knutson – was standing in front of him. "Does it look like teatime to you? Get back to work!" Knutson pointed to several large piles of folded towels and robes on a table off to the side. "Those need to be brought up to the main storage cupboard. Since you have nothing better to do, you can bring them all up yourself. Get moving!"

Stan ducked his head meekly as the others laughed at him, walked to the table and picked up one of the piles. After three exhausting trips up and down the stairs, there were still nearly a dozen piles left.

"Hurry it up, Shunprick. The others are leaving shortly, but you'll stay until all this shit is put away, and I don't give a Niffler's fanny if you miss your supper," Knutson said.

Stan sighed wearily and picked up another pile.

After four more trips, Stan was breathing heavily, and he leant against the shelves in the cupboard, resting for a moment. When he'd picked up the previous pile, the other inmates were leaving for their cells and supper, and Knutson had glared at him, disgusted. He'd told Stan that he wasn't missing his own supper because of him, and that when he got back, Stan had better be finished and waiting for him "right there", he'd said, pointing to a spot on the floor in front of an empty cauldron.

"Not over in the corner, not standing in the doorway, but right fucking _here_ on this damn spot, if you know what's good for you!"

Stan bit his lip and tried to breathe deeply. He was so miserable here: he was frightened all the time, teased mercilessly and constantly pushed around, and he was sick of having his privates groped by the other inmates. Well, one particular group of inmates. He was so on edge that he hadn't been able to wank in weeks – not since he'd been arrested, truth be told – and he realized that wanking was likely to be the only pleasure left to him. He had no illusions that he would leave this place alive, and he was even surer that he'd never wank again.

The sound of creaking hinges made him start, and he looked up to see Rodolphus Lestrange standing there, towering above him and leering. Stan tried to take a step back, but he was already leaning against the shelves and there was nowhere to go in this small room.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" Lestrange said, his voice soft but menacing. He reached out and laid a hulking hand on Stan's face, his thumb digging into the tender skin underneath Stan's jaw.

Stan swallowed and licked his lips, his eyes darting frantically around, looking for a hole to crawl into and disappear.

Lestrange was staring fixedly at Stan's mouth. "Mmm, that's good. Wet those lips. Uncle Rodolphus has something else he wants you to taste." He laughed, a horrible sound to Stan's ears, and suddenly Lestrange's hands were on Stan's shoulders, pushing him down onto his knees. One hand fisted in Stan's hair, and the other lifted the front of his robes up to his stomach, exposing himself.

Stan tried to flinch, Lestrange's hard, bobbing cock only inches from his face, but Lestrange tugged hard on his hair, and Stan yelped and opened his mouth. A grave error as Lestrange thrust his hips forward and plunged his cock into Stan's mouth. Stan tried to close his lips, but Lestrange only growled and thrust harder, and Stan's head rocked back, banging against the shelf behind him.

"Yeah, that's it, make it nice and tight for me, you're such a good little pussy, nice and wet, just like a tight pussy," he crooned, "but if you use your teeth," he added harshly, "I'll snap your neck!"

Stan blinked back tears and tried not to gag. He could taste stale sweat, and the odour of Lestrange’s crotch was decidedly rank and unpleasant, but he quickly realized he had no choice but to breathe through his nose. He raised his hands and tried to push, but Lestrange pulled hard on his hair, so instead, he used his hands to steady himself, bracing himself against Lestrange's thighs, and he closed his watering eyes.

He tried to manoeuvre his tongue to stop Lestrange's thrusting from reaching the back of his throat, and Lestrange groaned, thrusting even harder.

"Yeah, tongue it, gonna fuck you so hard. Show you how to suck cock like a real man."

Unable to swallow properly, Stan drooled, and he could feel it dripping down his chin. He didn't bother to wipe it off, too busy praying for it to be over, the salty, bitter taste making him gag despite his best efforts.

Suddenly the cupboard was flooded with light, light he could see even through his closed eyelids. He opened his eyes just as Lestrange pulled his cock from Stan's mouth, and turned around to growl something harsh and unintelligible at the intruder.

His words were cut off mid-growl, and the hand in Stan's hair was suddenly gone. Lestrange let his robe fall back down, and Stan dropped his shaking hands and leant his head back, relief flooding through him. He felt almost giddy.

"Fuck you, Lucius," Lestrange barked.

Malfoy merely raised his eyebrows, and Lestrange sneered at him before stalking off, clearly angry.

Stan was still shaking, the taste of Lestrange still in his mouth, and he turned his head and retched, gagging and vomiting bile. He lay on the floor, eyes closed, cheek pressed to the cold stone, and tried to breathe. He felt a towel pressing gently to his mouth, and he lifted his head to find Malfoy looking down at him. He took the proffered towel and wiped his face and mouth, and cleaned up the mess on the floor. When he was finished, Malfoy was offering him a hand, and he took it gratefully, getting to his feet.

"S-sorry," Stan stammered, looking down at his feet.

Malfoy gently lifted his chin, forcing Stan to look him in the eye, but instead of cold, cruel indifference, Stan was stunned to see something more akin to…compassion.

"Are you hurt?" Malfoy asked.

Stan's knees buckled, and Malfoy had to steady him with a hand to his elbow. He gulped in air and bit his lip, shaking his head. "No," he whispered, his voice raspy. "N-not really."

"Good," he replied and smiled, and it was a friendly smile.

Stan felt dizzy and confused, but he remained on his feet.

"I believe you still have some work to do. Come," Malfoy said, and gestured to the open door. "Bring that towel and we'll leave it with the other soiled laundry for tomorrow's shift to wash, shall we?"

Stan nodded, and left the cupboard, Malfoy right behind him. When they got back to the laundry room, he was even more shocked when Malfoy wordlessly picked up a pile of clean towels, and walked with him back to the cupboard. It only took one more trip before they were finished. As they walked back down the laundry room to wait for Knutson, Stan finally found his voice.

"Why? Why've you been so nice to me? It was you that gave me the socks, wasn't it?"

"Of course," Malfoy answered. "I had an extra pair, you needed them. It wasn't a hardship on my part."

"Th-Thank you, M-Mr Malfoy," Stan said, feeling a bit numb.

"As for the other, let us just say that you remind me of an old, dear friend of mine."

"Really?" Stan asked, his voice little more than a squeak.

Malfoy laughed, and it was like music in Stan's ears. "You sound surprised. I have many friends, Mr Shunpike. Many friends in many places."

"S-Stan," Stan said shyly. "You don't have to call me Mr Shunpike, Mr Malfoy."

"Stan, then. And you may call me Lucius, as my friends do."

"Lucius," Stan breathed, uttering the name like a prayer.

When Knutson returned, he was surprised to find Lucius there, and he kept glancing between them, bewildered.

"All right then," he said, gesturing towards the door. "Let's go."

Knutson unlocked the doors to both of their cells, but Lucius paused in the corridor, his expression thoughtful.

"Knutson, it would appear that my friend Mr Shunpike has missed his supper. In consideration, perhaps he might join me for a while, and you can return him to his own cell a bit later."

"Of course, Mr Malfoy," Knutson replied without hesitation.

Stan's jaw dropped, and he stood there staring in shock. He'd forgotten that he'd missed the evening meal, but food was the last thing on his mind right now. Mal—Lucius had not only invited him to his cell, but the guard had said yes without any fuss at all. Stan was impressed. In the weeks he'd been here, he couldn't remember seeing anyone else in Lucius' cell with him, and his stomach fluttered with both fear and nervous excitement.

Lucius pushed open the door and gestured for Stan to enter. "Go on and have a seat, Stan," he said, and then turned to have a quiet word with Knutson before the guard locked the door.

There was a large trunk in the corner, and two plates of food stood steaming on top. Lucius brought the plates to where Stan was sitting on the cushioned bench, and then returned to the trunk, producing two wrapped linen napkins, a bottle of wine and two glasses from its depths.

He put the napkins and glasses down on the trunk, and focused his gaze on the bottle. He drew his finger slowly up the neck and after a few seconds, to Stan's utter astonishment, the cork flew out of the bottle and landed on the floor a few feet away.

Stan gaped. "Wandless magic," he breathed, and he stared at Lucius with undisguised awe.

Lucius smiled and poured them each a glass, setting the bottle on the trunk. He retrieved the plates and in moments, the table was set. "Come and have a seat, Stan," he said, and Stan noticed that there were two small cushions on the floor beside the trunk.

Stan settled down on one the cushions and stared at the meal before him, completely dumbfounded, thinking of the tasteless stews and porridge he choked down every day.

"You should eat before it gets cold," Lucius chided, and raised his glass in a toast.

Stan blinked and hurriedly raised his own glass.

"Prison is no excuse for civilised men like ourselves to behave as animals, after all."

"Y-yes. Of course," Stan replied and drank deeply, choking a little.

"So, Stan, what was your occupation, before your life was so rudely interrupted?" Lucius asked, slicing his roast beef and taking a bite.

"Oh, I, well, I was the conductor on the Knight Bus," Stan said. "Not, er, not a very important job. Not like yours."

Lucius swallowed and inclined his head. "On the contrary, my friend. The Knight Bus is a vital institution in our world. Just think how many witches and wizards would be stranded with no transportation without the service you provide. It's a very noble occupation, indeed. More wine?" he asked, refilling Stan's glass without waiting for him to reply.

"Oh, well, when you put it like that. You're absolutely right, Mr—er, Lucius. 'Undreds of 'em depend on me and Ern every day," Stan said, thumping himself on the chest and drinking more wine.

"You must meet fascinating people," Lucius prodded.

"That I do. I met the Minister himself! Well, er, the old Minister, Minister Fudge. And," he said, smiling, his tongue feeling a bit loose in his mouth, "I even met 'Arry Potter!"

Stan's grin faded, and he felt a bit sick as he realized to whom he'd just mentioned Harry Potter's name, but Lucius seemed unfazed.

"Have you, then? I've met him a number of times myself. In fact," he added, "my son, Draco, used to be a very close, personal friend of Mr Potter, however, they had a falling out." He frowned, and leaned closer, lowering his voice.

"I probably shouldn't mention this, but, seeing as we're friends. You see, Draco discovered that Mr Potter had lied to him about something, something very important and very personal. Draco was devastated. In fact, I'd never seen him so upset. What made it worse for him was that Mr Potter never even had the decency to apologize. He laughed at my son and spread vicious lies about him around the school. It hurt Draco very deeply, and for a while he was teased quite mercilessly for it."

Lucius shook his head and sighed, taking a small sip of his wine. "It was very disturbing to me, of course, but Draco insisted that I not interfere. He's very independent, my son, and I was very proud of him. However, I was deeply disappointed in Mr Potter, especially since he bears such celebrity in our world. It would appear that he has no sense of responsibility or proper wizarding pride at all. A shame."

"He lied to me the first time I met 'im," Stan blurted, feeling a stab of compassion for Lucius' poor son. He knew quite well what it felt like to be mocked. "Told me 'is name was Neville, and even lied about knowing who Sirius Black was!"

Lucius nodded sagely. "So you know, too, I see." He reached out a hand and gently laid it on top of Stan's. "I'm sorry."

Stan nodded. He felt light-headed, and his hand tingled where Lucius touched it. He smiled shyly and drank more wine, feeling more at ease than he had in a long time. He couldn't believe that he'd been afraid of Lucius for so long, that he'd ever thought the man was cold or evil.

They continued to talk over their meal, and Lucius was exceedingly generous with both the wine and their conversation, confiding in him many secrets that Stan had never imagined. Lucius explained how he was so very misunderstood, how everything he had ever done has been for the sole purpose of the betterment of wizarding kind. He was loyal to the Ministry, he told Stan, yet he had been betrayed by jealous rivals he thought were friends; falsely accused, and persecuted, abandoned at every turn. Stan had been so alone, so very lonely for so long and now he realized, shocked, that Lucius Malfoy, rich and powerful though he may be, had been just as lonely, if not more so, having been betrayed by those he had trusted.

They finished eating, and Lucius invited him to join him on the bench. "I'd offer you some port, but I'm afraid I haven't any just now. So, what else might I do for you? What would make you happy, Stan?"

Stan blinked. He felt full and comfortable, and very, very relaxed. "The socks made me 'appy," he said, leaning back and closing his eyes, a content smile on his face. "Very 'appy. And supper was the dog's bollocks, too."

Lucius laughed, and rested his hand on Stan's thigh. "It's pleasant for me to share what I have with my friends. I so rarely get the opportunity these days. But what I want to know is, what can I do for you?" Lucius' hand rubbed lightly along Stan's thigh, and he squeezed gently. "Something more personal, perhaps?"

Stan opened his eyes wide. "I-I…"

Lucius leaned over and whispered in his ear. "Shhh. Just relax. Let me do this for you, Stan. You trust me, yes?" His hand inched its way higher, closer and closer. "Just as I trust you. I promise you, my friend, you'll enjoy this."

"N-No, please," Stan begged.

Lucius' fingers were gently brushing over Stan's flaccid cock, through his robes. He gasped, suddenly afraid again, but he realized something that struck him as profound. All of the incidents – that time in the shower with the Death Eaters, all of the cock- and arse-groping, and even earlier with Lestrange – none of them had ever touched him like this. None of them had ever tried to please him or make him feel good. They'd used him, humiliated him. But not Lucius.

Lucius had saved him, had given him comfort, and had been completely selfless in his generosity, never asking for anything in return except friendship. And Lucius trusted him; trusted him above all of the others.

His cock stirred under his robes, and he gasped again in surprise. Lucius' touch was so gentle and, he realized, Lucius was right. It did feel good. Surprisingly good. He felt suddenly nervous, but then Lucius was there, kneeling before him, lifting up his robes and sliding his hands gently up Stan's bare legs.

"Let me do this for you," he purred.

Stan nodded, astounded, but already wiggling to free the robes from beneath his arse.

"O-Okay. I...I trust you, Lucius," he whispered back, closing his eyes, his heart fluttering nervously in his chest.

"No. Open your eyes. I want you to watch. To see what you deserve." Lucius wrapped his uncallused fingers around Stan's cock and stroked him to hardness. "See how good it feels? So warm, smooth. Such a lovely cock, Stan. Look how hard you are for me.

"I've watched you for weeks. You know I have. All the time hoping you would one day be my friend, that you would allow me touch you like this, allow me pleasure you. Let me take your pain away, show you how to turn that pain into pleasure."

"Y-Yes," Stan said, his breath coming heavy as Lucius stroked faster.

"Such a sweet young thing, you are. Lovely." He continued to stroke Stan's cock, his other hand reaching out to cradle his balls in its palm.

Stan moaned, watching the way his cock slid so smoothly between Lucius' long, elegant fingers. It felt so good. Nobody else had ever touched him, touched his cock, his bollocks. It had been so long since he'd wanked, and Lucius was even better at it than he was himself. He thrust up into Lucius' hands, and spread his legs wider.

"Such an eager young thing, too," Lucius whispered, chuckling. "That's it, watch my hands, Stan. Oh, look how wet you are. All for me."

"Y-Yes, all for you, all for you, oh bloody—oh!"

He was coming, oh god, he was coming. His hips thrust wildly as his body pulsed, sang, and he cried out with the joy of it, closing his eyes and throwing his head back, wishing it would never stop.

"That's a good boy, Stan, shhh, beautiful, so pretty when you come for me," Lucius whispered, slowing his strokes.

Stan was leaning back against the wall, breathing heavily and feeling completed sated. He felt a brief but gentle touch to his lips and opened his eyes in surprise. Lucius was leaning back on his heels, smiling, and he held a towel in his hands. Stan tried to lift his arm to take it from him, and Lucius laughed at his feeble attempt.

"Not to worry. I'll do it."

"Thank you," Stan mumbled, and smiled as he felt Lucius' gentling hands through the thin towel.

He felt Lucius sit down beside him, and he opened his eyes, a shy smile on his face.

"If you're ready to sleep, I'll call Knutson to let you back into your own cell," Lucius said.

Stan sat up abruptly, a knot twisting in his belly. "No!"

Lucius raised his eyebrows.

"I-I mean. No, I don't wanna sleep yet, I mean. Er, what about you?"

"Me? What _about_ me?" Lucius asked, puzzled.

"Well, it's….You've done so much for me, 'ow can I…?"

Lucius smiled. "You needn't give me anything in return. I do this out of friendship. I couldn't possibly ask that of you."

Stan felt stricken. He bit his lip. "But—But I _want_ to."

Lucius smiled at him, and he felt a bit better.

"That's very generous of you, however… I'm a married man, Stan," Lucius said sadly.

Stan's face fell. "Oh." He bit his lip again.

"Of course," Lucius said softly, "I may never see her again."

"Oh," Stan said again, not really sure what he should say. He'd never been very good at this sort of thing, and his previous attempts…well, the last attempt had landed him here.

Lucius looked at him intently. "You really want to? You'd do this for me?"

"Yes!" Stan said, and he felt light-headed, happy. "I want to make you feel good, too."

Lucius nodded, and Stan knelt before him, lifting Lucius' robes to expose his already-hard cock lying upright across his taut belly. He touched it tentatively, feeling suddenly shy and unsure what to do.

"Touch me," Lucius whispered, taking Stan's hand and wrapping his fingers lightly around his cock. Stan stared in wonder. It was so warm, and the skin was silky, both hard and soft at the same time. He stroked it softly, "Like this?"

Lucius smiled and spread his legs wider, allowing Stan to lean in closer.

He breathed in his scent – Lucius smelt clean and, and something else, sweat, but it wasn't rank or bitter the way…. He pushed his earlier encounter from his mind and concentrated on Lucius. Lucius, who took care of him and made him happy.

He leant in closer and rubbed his nose along the underside of the shaft, inhaling more deeply.

Lucius moaned, his voice soft. "Yes," he whispered, resting his hand lightly on the top of Stan's head, fingers massaging his scalp.

Encouraged, Stan stuck out his tongue and licked, a bit awkwardly.

"Mmm, such a good boy. Yes. More, Stan, please."

A bit too eager, Stan leaned forward, his lips closed around the head, and he bobbed his head down deeply. He gagged slightly and his eyes watered. He pulled away, feeling ashamed at his inexperience.

Lucius stroked Stan's chin with his fingers and smiled. "Shhh. Not like that. Here, let me show you." He lay down on his side, and stroked himself a few times. "Go slowly. Cover your teeth with your lips, and start with the head. I'll tell you what to do if you need me. Give me your hand."

Grateful, Stan nodded. Lucius wrapped Stan's hand around the base of his cock.

"There. Hold it like that, and use your mouth now."

Stan sucked the head into his mouth, and licked.

"Good, yes, that's good. Now suck on it a bit, and move your mouth down slowly. I'll tell you when you can take more. That's it, lick it and then suck it, harder, yes. Mmmm."

Lucius was gentle and patient, and his voice hummed in Stan's ear. It made Stan feel so good, to know that Lucius was enjoying this, that he could please him. He was still rather awkward, but Lucius was teaching him, and he'd learn because he desperately needed to please him.

Lucius whispered such filthy things to him, but from his mouth they sounded erotic, sexy, and made him feel wanted. Made him hard again, too.

"C'mon Stan, that's it, you can take a little more, a little bit more, yes, like that. Suck it harder, you love my cock in your mouth, don't you, I know you do. So eager.

"Are you getting hard? Sucking my cock makes you hard, doesn't it? Oh yes, hum, just like that, don't stop. Take out your cock and stroke yourself, do it. Make yourself come again, come for me, show me how much you love the taste of my cock and make yourself come. Mmmm. Move your hand, yes, good boy. Keep sucking, no, don't, don't pull away, take more, just another inch, you can do it, yes."

He was going to come again, too. He tried to pull back. His jaw was aching, but Lucius had his hand resting gently on the back of his head, begging him to keep sucking, and he didn't want to disappoint him. He was so close himself, so close. He bobbed his head, and let Lucius thrust into him, licking around his cock as best he could and trying not to drool too much, or gag. He stroked himself faster and felt himself release, _oh, fuck yes!_ and he hummed around Lucius' cock, his mouth going a bit slack.

"That's it, come for me, you're such a sweet little thing, your mouth is so wet, deeper, let me fuck your mouth, let me fuck it, let me come…"

_Yes,_ Stan begged silently, _ I need you to come, I need to know that you're happy, that I can make you feel good._

Lucius grunted, and Stan felt Lucius' cock pulse in his mouth. It felt strange, but good, too, and he sucked harder as bitter fluid spurted across his tongue. He gagged a bit, but swallowed, concentrating on the notion that he'd done it, he'd sucked Lucius off and made him come, and Lucius was pleased with him.

  
Later that night, Stan lay awake in his cell, his mind whirling with everything that had happened that evening. He felt giddy, probably still high from the wine, but even more, he could feel his cock stirring beneath his robes, and he rejoiced at the notion of feeling alive after these last weeks of nightmare, weeks where he'd been no more than a mere step from utter despair.

The fortress was dark and heavy with the sounds of night, muffled snores and the faint rustling of the inmates shifting in their sleep. Suddenly footsteps sounded on the stone floor. A guard then, since the inmates didn't wear shoes. Must be making rounds, Stan thought.

The footsteps continued on past his cell, their pace steady, then returned, walking back towards the exit, but before they had gone even half the distance to the door, they paused. He held his breath, wondering why the guard had stopped. Nothing had sounded amiss to his own ears.

There was another faint rustling noise, like the whisper of cloth, and then Stan heard a very distinct, raspy _"Crucio!"_

Stan jumped as Rodolphus Lestrange cursed and screamed in his cell, only two down from Stan's. Stan whimpered and stuffed his fist into his mouth to muffle the sound. Lestrange's cries had faded, leaving only the sound of harsh, heavy breathing. The snores and shifting of the other inmates had ceased, and there was an eerie stillness in the dank air.

_"Crucio!"_

Lestrange screamed again and, huddled beneath his blanket, Stan covered his ears with his hands and shook violently, terrified that he would be next. When the screams faded to rasping gasps a second time, he heard the footsteps retreating, heard the outer door close with a final click. The guard had gone.

Stan lay there gasping, his heart pounding in his chest, wondering what had just happened. No, he knew _what_ had happened; he didn't know why.

A memory from earlier that evening, a lifetime ago or so it felt, flashed in his mind.

_"Fuck you, Lucius,"_ Lestrange had said.

Stan grinned, his smile widening as his heart slowed its frantic pace.

No, fuck you, Lestrange, you filthy pig.

Stan thought of Lucius, of the generosity and kindness Lucius had shown him, how he'd saved him over and over again, and now avenged him. Thought of the sweet smile that had graced his lips, the gentleness of his touch and the adoring way he had looked at Stan, and the hot, filthy words he'd whispered while Stan had eagerly sucked him off.

He touched his cock, half hard even now, and realized he did have something of his own that he could give to Lucius after all. He felt giddy with his own cleverness. He quivered, smiling, anticipating the pleased look on Lucius' face when he pulled him aside tomorrow and told him how badly he wanted Lucius to fuck him.

He was still smiling when he fell asleep.

  
*~*

  
_You can't talk to me like that anymore. M'not the same pathetic little snivelling…pansy I used to be. I got friends now, Ern, real friends, lots of friends in lots of places, and they take care o' me. They respect me!_

_They do not lie to me and use me! I know the difference between truth and lies!_

_Ha! 'Arry Potter's my friend? 'Arry Potter is a filthy little Mudblood-loving liar, and you should know. He lied to us when we first met him, din' he? But he got me out o' Azkaban, just like Lucius said he would._

_He din't do it for me! He did it for himself! He tried to use me – just like Lucius said he would, too! Tried to bribe me into telling 'im secrets, tried to tell me more lies, but I know better now. So, you know what I did? I told **him** lies, I did! That'll show 'im!_

_You shouldna tried to stop me, Ern. I thought you were still my friend._

_Don't lie to me! Stay back! **Petrificus Totalus!**_

_Ha! See? Not such a useless wizard after all. Not good enough to do Unforgivables, but Lucius said it was okay, 'cos they're hard to do even for real powerful wizards. He taught me another spell though, said it would be just as good, long as nobody found the body for a while._

_Sorry, Ern, even though I'm not. Prison changes a man. 'Sides, you were askin' for it. But, er, thanks for teaching me how to drive the Bus. Had some good times, you and me._

_Right. Well, I gotta go. Lucius is waiting for me to fetch 'im. Counting on me to get 'im out._

_Um, well, goodbye, Ern._

_ **Sectumsempra!** _

_~fin~_


End file.
